Five Times One of the Team Cooked the Team Meal
by selmak
Summary: Looking back, Phil Coulson wondered how such a good idea of Team Meal Night went so wrong. Team Fic
1. Chapter 1

Five Times One of the Team Cooked the Team Meal

INTRO

Skye, clandestine Rising Tide Hacker, sat in the first 'team' meeting. The battered bus had been returned to its former glory after Coulson's ex (and what an obviously explosive, sex charged, tumulus relationship that had to have been, which raised AC's rep to sky high levels in her opinion)

"Since Skye has elected to join us, I've re-arranged the chores schedule," Coulson began as he began distributing hard copies. HARD COPIES, of their assignments.

"Excuse me, **_chores_**?" Skye interrupted. "And haven't you heard of e-copies? Save a tree?"

No one laughed so she bit her lip.

"The bus is a privilege, we need to keep it clean. Therefore everyone will be responsible for taking care of the various locations."

"I don't see your name on bathroom duty," protested Skye.

Coulson smiled a tight smile, which Skye recognized as Sister Michael Immaculate's 'don't push me, or you'll regret it, kid' smile.

"I clean my own area. Daily. That includes my shower and toilet."

"And what's this assignment, _team meal_?" Simmons asked. The other team members pipe in with their questions.

"Once a week, we will have a team meal, and one team member will do the cooking. I've decided that after recent events, it might be beneficial for the team to have dinner together once a week as opposed to waiting for the next time you need to blow up the bus." Coulson stopped and glared at each team member. "Speaking of which, there will be no more blowing up of the bus."

Skye quickly noticed that she wasn't the only one that didn't look thrilled with AC's idea. Her problem was simple, she didn't know how to cook and never really needed to do so. It was horrifying to be the only one that couldn't cook, and somehow serving everyone cereal wasn't gonna cut it. May would fling it in her face!

"Ward will be cooking for us on Saturday," Coulson announced.

WARD

Coulson was sitting in his office when Ward knocked on the door.

"Enter," he announced.

"Sir, this cooking thing," Ward began.

The pen is placed just so, and Coulson looked up at his specialist.

"Let me guess, you're a lone wolf chef? You cook alone?" Coulson dryly asked.

"This team meal idea," Ward once again interjected.

"I understand your former SO Garrett is a firm believer in food trucks," Coulson interrupted. "It could explain why they nearly grounded him on his last physical. His new specialist, Trip, is a vegan."

"Sir," Ward continued.

"LDL was almost 300," Coulson explained. "Naturally, I'm concerned about yours as it was a little high on the last exam. Plus, you need to immediately cease the Lone Wolf routine."

Ward still didn't look convinced, so Phil laid it on the line.

"Yes, it's an order." He looked down, as Ward has been dismissed but he looked up when he realized that Ward hadn't left.

Ward looked nervous, which was a reassuring change from cocky, self-assured, smug. Damn shame the full head of hair was unaffected.

"Sir, I can't cook. At all." Ward slowly admitted.

Good God, Grant Ward was thirty something years old and he didn't know how to cook? Didn't Ward know that the best date was to cook a meal for your lover and drink lots and lots of wine? If Ward couldn't cook, the entire team might end up in The Hub suffering from food poisoning.

"I'll show you how to make Ricotta Gnudi with Pomodoro Sauce. Even a tyro can't screw that up. Salad, garlic bread, maybe strawberry panna cotta for dessert. Meet me on Saturday at two, we'll need to go to market."

"Market?" Ward repeated. "We don't have what we need on the bus?"

"We'll be in Italy. You can't make Italian food in Italy using processed cheese. It's a crime against nature," Coulson advised. "You need to food shop, Ward."

SATURDAY

Ward in tow, Coulson attacked the local farmer markets like he was on a mission. Cheeses are smelled, pinched and tasted. Basil is examined and crushed between his fingers and Old Italian grandmothers are flirted with in a noble yet failed attempt to steal their secret, sacred recipes. After Ward admitted that one cheese tasted much like another, his role is changed from fellow taster to delivery boy by a horrified Coulson. Whatever Coulson purchased, Ward is required to carry.

And the wine is decided upon by Phil and Ward is not permitted a taste as his palate has been deemed lacking.

Fortunately, everyone has vacated the bus by the time the two men returned. The items are unpacked and Coulson inspected the produce once more. The inspection completed, he picked up a tomato after he poured himself a glass of wine.

"This is a tomato," Phil explained before he picked up a small white bulb. "This is garlic. Do not confuse the two."

The effort isn't even attempted to hide Phil's smirk.

"Sir," protested Ward.

"Just wanted to clear up any possible misunderstandings as we want this edible," Phil insisted before he savored a sip of wine.

Under Coulson's expert tutorage, Ward mixed, diced, slice and minced. A few of the more complicated culinary feats required Coulson to take over to prevent a dining disaster, but Ward was surprised to realize that cooking was rather relaxing. Plus it gave him a chance to talk with Coulson about something that wasn't SHIELD related.

The two agents chatted about the strange world of sautéing, how best to crush a garlic bulb with a knife blade, Italian operas that Coulson had seen and the arcane difference between sea salt and kosher salt. Should red pepper be added or would that disturb Fitz's Scottish sensibilities? Meanwhile, nothing is measured by Coulson. It seemed that he was an artist as there are drips and drabs, pinches and shakes while Ward is ordered to measure everything twice.

"I pulled two Italian Chiantis for dinner. All you need to do now is cook the meal, and plate it. You should be able to handle it," Coulson announced.

Ward was confused so Coulson sighed, "You put a lot of effort into this meal. Don't serve it on paper plates. You will pour the wine and grate the cheese for the team. Do not serve the Kraft Grated Parmesan Cheese."

Ward protested but Coulson realized it was done more of out a need to protest, to keep his Lone Wolf status intact than a real protest. Poor Little Lone Wolf Ward was being assimilated into Team Coulson.

"Ward, good china and silverware."

DINNER

Dinner is served and the team oo'd and aww'd over the experience. Coulson unbent enough to explain that in Italian, "gnudi" means exactly what it sounds like in English: naked. The gnudi are little pasta-like dumplings that are "naked" of their pasta wrapper, sort of like raviolis without anything to enclose them.

And the strawberry dessert is delicious and combined with the perfect wine, Skye hasn't eaten such a delicious meal ever.

So, she offered a Skye toast, "To RoboAgent. Who would have thought that you could cook naked pasta so well?"

Glasses are clinked, comments are exchanged and Ward just smiled and completely failed at looking modest.

AFTERS

Coulson is pleased as team meal night has segued into team game night. It seemed that his idea of team bonding has gone over quite well. However, instead of joining the game, he returned back to his office and picked out a book to read.

He's interrupted by a knock on the door, so he informed whomever it was to enter. It's Jemma Simmons and she looked worried. Worried as 'Oh no, the lab exploded!'.

Oh God, what now?

"Is there a problem?" He asked.

"Sir!" Jemma explained. "I can't cook! How can I possibly follow Ward's meal?"

"Simmons, you're an expert in biochemistry. Cooking is just an artistic form of biochemistry," Phil protested.

His reassurance doesn't help. In fact, Jemma's expression turned despairing.

"I burn water," Simmons whispered. "How can I hope to complete with naked pasta?"

Oh dear God, Team Meal Night was turning into a major production.


	2. Chapter 2

THE PLANNING MEETING

"Sir, I need help with this assignment!" Jemma Simmons insisted.

"Simmons, I distinctively remember a buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto sandwich with a hint of pesto aioli that you made," Coulson reminded her when they met for the planning stages of 'Simmons cooks dinner for the team'.

"Self-defense," she explained. "He gets so tetchy when his blood sugar drops. That sandwich keeps him functioning."

"Do you have any idea what you want to try?" Phil prompted.

"A few small ideas," she admitted, right before she pushed her Stark Pad toward Coulson.

He hadn't known Jemma Simmons for long, but if there had been a chore score board (Perhaps hidden in the Team Lead's Office) for the kids, Good Girl Jemma's line would be full of smiley faces as she was an overachiever. Surly, hormonally crazed, older brother Ward would have a plethora of scowly faces, Fitz would have checkmarks for chores adequately fulfilled and little sister Skye, whose line would run the entire spectrum of unhappy faces, black checkmarks and a few smiley faces, when she was trying to butter up Dad so she could borrow Lola.

It's no surprise then that Simmons hasn't picked anything easy. No. Not at all. He couldn't even pretend to hide his amusement.

"Cervelles au beurre noi? Hell, no," Phil interjected. "Fitz has a thing about texture, do you really think he'll eat Calves' brains in brown butter sauce?"

He wouldn't say that Leo Fitz is on the spectrum, but he has noticed that the Scot set in his ways, has his quirks and he has his routine.

"If I make them, he will," Jemma said with complete confidence.

"Simmons, please promise me that you will only use your super powers over Fitz for good. Seriously. Cervelles au beurre noi?" He can't help it, he gifted her a fierce glare before he turned the screw. "What is going on with the team, seriously?"

As he had guessed, she quickly folded due to his stern countenance.

"There's a contest," Simmons admitted. "Whose meal is the best, wins."

**_Children! _**

"Victor gets?" He's learned a great deal from wrangling Tony Stark including how not to show his amusement.

"Losers do the winner's chores for a week. A whole month without cleaning the bus is a very tempting prize," Simmons nodded her head once.

"And you think calves brains will win you first place? Seriously?" Coulson exclaimed.

"You're a foodie. Points will be given for originality and 'plating'," Jemma explained. "It's obvious you helped Ward as he never could have pulled off that meal without a caterer. You're a miracle worker, he's even adding nicely chopped vegetables to his scrambled eggs now. He even tried poaching eggs yesterday."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he informed her in a very droll tone.

"Thank you!" Simmons literally bounced in her excitement and Coulson realized that had no idea what he was in for. Was it his imagination, but were those the opening sounds of "O Fortuna" he heard?

_O Fortuna, velut luna, statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis;_

"Leave your pad here. I'll see what you might be able to do, but absolutely positively no brains," Coulson insisted.

There were days when he felt like he was one of the living dead, resurrected and ripped from his earthly grave, so Phil Coulson will not; WILL NOT, nibble on brains. Calves or otherwise. Thank you very very much.

"I figured since we'll be in Paris, we could try French food," Jemma explained. "We could go shopping in the farmer's market."

He can't hide his confusion, and Jemma gives him her big brown puppy dog eyes complete with quivering lip. Coulson went mano a mano with an alien with a daddy complex and he had the scars to prove it but he's no match to Jemma's big brown eyes.

"But _you_ took _Ward_ food shopping for _his_ team meal."

Yes, there seems to be jealously among the kids. They all wanted time with Dad, which meant Mom would be jealous.

"We can go to the marché couvert and investigate the various fromageries and charcuteries," he finally decided.

THE MISSION

"A charcuterie plate might be a good idea to start the meal," he informed a rather eager Simmons, who had zealously over prepared.

"Yes, we need a selection of cheeses," she began before she began to rattle off her various ideas on what would be the perfect selection, based on consistency, firmness, acidity etc. She trailed off when she realized that he was smiling at her. Phil couldn't help it, her enthusiasm was quite charming especially she discussed the proper wine.

"What?" She protested.

"There's not a quiz on this," he explained. "You won't be graded."

"I know," she protested. "But I want to win."

Phil nodded.

THE HOSTILE

It's the first time Jemma has been in a French farmer's market, and she embraced the event whole heartedly, unlike Ward who needed to be cajoled to experience anything. No, Simmons guzzled the experience, and he's perhaps displayed a bit too amused as one of the vendors then made a rude Frenchian comment that implied that Simmons is his mistress. That's being kind, as the vendor commented that Simmons is his much younger 'fille de joie'.

Phil lost his smile, his fists clenched and the vendor realized that he has crossed a dangerous line. Hopefully Simmons didn't hear the vendor compare her to a prostitute.

"We're leaving," he tersely informed Simmons. "He doesn't have for what we're looking. If he did, I certainly wouldn't buy it from him."

Simmons nodded her head but then she pulled his head down to hers and she gave him a kiss. On his lips. If he wasn't the beneficiary, merely a bystander, he'd believe that Simmons's tongue was performing a tonsillectomy. The sham snogging concluded; she turned and faced the vendor. In perfect, flawless French, she informed the vendor that she was not Coulson's whore, but his wife. Then she patted her stomach and announced that she's mother of his children.

Then in a very sultry tone, she added, "I like my men like I like my liquor, aged and mellow. And I **_savor_**…every single drop."

Coulson has died at least once in his life, but at the moment, he heard the heavenly hosts calling his name and announcing, "Phil, you really underestimated Jemma Simmons."

And yes, the soundtrack of his life had a new addition – "O, Fortuna".

"I think we can leave now," she said as she pulled a stunned Coulson away from the vendor. He permitted her to yank him down a side row and then he stopped.

"Simmons?" He pleaded. "What just happened?"

"He annoyed me." She is the very exemplification of fierceness. "Not that he thought I was a prostitute, but that he thought that the only way you could get a date was by paying. I mean, you're established…"

Phil Coulson has never ever really felt old, but he can feel someone throwing dirt on his grave.

"Matured…."

He swallowed and tried to figure out how to ask her to stop, before his ego is completely shredded, but an oblivious Simmons merrily continued. "I'm sure you have plenty of women who'd love to date you as you're just so sophisticated. A far cry from the immature prats I've dated."

He hasn't dated since before he died. It's been a year or more for him and that relationship had been after a very long dry spell.

"Plus you've got the sweetest dimples when you really smile." She leaned toward him and then added, "But you're cutest when you look totally flummoxed, like right now."

"A baby?" he asked when he finally has regained use of his tongue. "You told him you were having my baby."

"Babies," she chirped. "Phil, Junior is four, Emma is two, and the twins…"

"Twins?" he repeated.

"Twins!"

THE GATHERING OF INTEL

"This is delicious," Jemma decided as she sampled a particularly savory pâté de campagne. "Try it."

"My hands are full," as they are. He's a gentleman so he's loaded down with wine, various cheese and fresh baguettes.

"Don't worry, I'll feed you," she said even as she told him to open wide before she fed him a cracker with some of the pate smeared on it. "Just the slightest flavor of cognac. Delicious!"

Simmons has decided to hand feed him.

When you're a man of a certain age and a receding hairline, you should count yourself lucky that one of the pretty girls is willing to spoon feed you. However, no sponge baths.

"We'll take that," she decided. "Can you recommend any stalls for olives or cornichons?"

She's given directions and a thin shaving of duck prosciutto which she shared with him.

"Come on! Come on!"

THE DEBRIEFING

Simmons' control over the kitchen is absolute, so Coulson attempted to slip away.

"Where are you going?" She asked even while she waved her knife. "You **_helped_** Ward. I think that's an unfair advantage."

"Simmons," is his response.

"Sir! You **_helped_** Ward!"

Big brown eyes, trembling lip, and a foot stamp.

"What do you want me to do?" He acquiesced, because really it's either this or paperwork.

"I'm cutting the cheese. I think wedges that are this size are optimal."

Each cheese has been neatly, surgically neatly, vivisected into exactly identically sized pieces.

"It's ok, if the cheeses aren't identically sized, Simmons."

Her look of horror made him smile, which is the wrong thing to do, as she advanced on him, still waving the knife.

"Simmons, stabbing your supervisor will end your career in SHIELD," he reminded her.

"Plating," she reminded Coulson. "Points are given for plating. Haphazardly cut cheeses will detract from the score for plating."

"My bad," he admitted.

Fortunately his apology is accepted as the knife is placed on the table.

"I have to beat Ward," she explained. "He's just so smug about his supposed cooking prowess, but we all know you helped him."

"How about I chop your onion for your soup?" he offered.

"Ok," she said. "But make sure they are evenly sized."

"Promise," he assured her even as he skinned and vivisected the onion with a practice ease.

Simmons' obsessive need for perfection relaxed enough for them to chat. She talked about Sheffield, her love of science, how she had met Fitz and a thousand other things. He enjoyed their conversation especially when they taste tested a bottle of Burgundy.

Perhaps a bit too much as he believed that there were moments when Simmons was flirting with him. Very obviously flirting, so he decided it was the wine

"You'll have to plate it," he informed her. He held up one finger to silence her protest. "Ward had to plate it, so will you."

THE WRAP UP

Simmons doesn't bother to hide her glee, as her French inspired meal has trumped Ward's Ricotta Gnudis. However, Jemma Simmons doesn't just desire to beat Ward, she desired to utterly annihilate her competition in the Food Wars. After dinner she brought out the chafing dish, which Phil doesn't remember ever seeing before tonight. With a slight grin, she lit it before she poured an ungodly amount of coffee and liquor together. That done, she whipped out a clove studded orange peel and requested that Skye hold it above the chafing dish using a long fork.

She dimmed the lights, poured more liquor on the orange peel and then produced a mini blow torch which she used to set the orange peel on fire where the cloves sparked like miniature fireworks. The team, except for Phil, applauded before she dropped the peel into the chafing dish.

**_Fire_**, Simmons had upped the ante by having fireworks. Fitz had a long, considering look on his face, which meant that the wheels of his mind were churning; perhaps his meal would be served by the D.W.A.R.F.S.,

_O Fortuna, velut luna, statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis!_

"It will simmer for ten minutes, and then I'll serve the Café Diablo. Any one like some citrus tart?" Simmons asked, content in her victory.

THE MISSION CONTINUES

Coulson waited for the knock on his door. It came somewhat later than he anticipated, and not from whom he had expected.

No, no, no! He refused to believe who was in his office. And would that damnable choir cease their constant singing of "O, Fortuna"?

This was supposed to be a good idea. It wasn't supposed to turn into "Cooking with Coulson".

"Phil," May stated as she crossed her arms, looking very much the fierce warrior princess.

"You can cook," Phil protested. "Don't tell me you can't. You bake cookies."

"Baking is different than cooking, Phil," protested Melinda May.


	3. Chapter 3

INTEL GATHERING

"One question," Phil asked May after her startling confession that she couldn't cook had finally been processed. "When you 'cooked' dinner for me, it was Romanelli's Pizzeria, wasn't it?"

May nodded. "I always made sure I got extra so I could send you home with leftovers. Plus mother cooked a few meals especially for you. I just thawed and heated them when I cooked for you."

Coulson tilts his head and displays true confusion. Dragon Lady May had openly disparaged him, on the few times he had the misfortune to cross her path.

"Your mother hated me," protested Coulson.

"She actually liked you a great deal. She believed that by being loudly disapproving of you that I'd date you," May explained. "She believed that I was quite… contrary."

It's been a long day; dealing with Simmons and her rather vivid imagination (oh God, the twins! TWINS!) has been put him in a fey mood. That's his excuse for cackling.

"No, not you," He protests in a very futile attempt to remain composed. "No one could ever accuse you of **_that_**."

Her look of disapproval (akin to the wounded hauteur of a waterlogged terrier) is too much for Coulson. He laughs. Uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry. This has turned into a major production. The children are having a contest," he stops at the look on her face and shakes his head. "Seriously, you're in the competition too, aren't you? On one hand, this is a team building experience, on the other; this is completely out of control as Simmons decided to set things on fire. I thought better of you, Melinda May."

He attempts to be stern but it doesn't work.

"Friday, we're food shopping, aren't we?" He asks. With May, it's best to pretend that he had a choice.

"Yes." Sideways grin. "After all you helped Ward and Simmons."

Well, of all the kids, Simmons was his favorite as she never caused him any lost sleep. Littlest daughter Skye made him to want to pull out his thinning hair on a regular basis, oldest son Ward was just too reticent and grouchy; and he still hasn't gotten a handle on Fitz; what with his machine, his plaids and his profound bond with Simmons and the fact that he had named his D.W.A.R.F.S after Snow White's buddies.

"Do you have your mother's recipes?" He asked.

Melinda May snorts.

"Ah, gave all the secrets to your sister? She was always biddable," Coulson admits.

Melinda May rolls her eyes at him.

COMPLICATIONS

Wednesday, Jemma Simmons jumps out of the Bus and lands in the Atlantic Ocean. It was a noble gesture as she thought she was protecting her team, but Phil is angry. He's failed to keep his kids safe, and he directs the anger inward. Jemma Simmons, she of the sweet, positive disposition, the 'daughter' he thought he could trust to not do anything stupid, who had deeply amused him with her highly imaginative defense of his physical prowess (Twins! TWINS! at his rather advanced age) had jumped out of the airplane.

And he wonders if Skye is rubbing off on her, instead of the other way around.

A fire extinguisher! She had clocked Fitz with a fire extinguisher. He mentally notes that he'll keep an eye on Simmons and any fire extinguishers when he's in the same room. For such as slight soul, she was a bit too comfortable whipping it at Fitz.

But that night he can't sleep, as he keeps reliving watching a despondent Jemma Simmons jumping even while he struggles, futilely, to stop it.

Thursday, Melinda May stops him in the kitchen.

"Market today, since the markets are closed tomorrow," she announces. "It will do you good as you need to get off the bus before you ground Simmons for the next twenty years."

"Already have," a grim Coulson announces. He ignores the fact that May is smirking at him.

"It's hard when your children grow up," she says.

He doesn't give her a response.

STRIKE FORCE MARKET PLACE

"How's your Arabic?" he asks as they head to the market.

"Fair, yours?" Melinda admits.

"Fortunately, I'm fluent as I had to haggle with the Moroccan office to get them to pick Simmons up and bring her back."

His tone is droll, so she adds, "And Ward?"

"It was only three miles off the shore, he could easily swim to shore. Plus they didn't want to keep Mr. Abrasive."

His quietness disturbs May, as she's used to his white noise of mindless chattering.

"What are you thinking?" Melinda May asks as they haggle, respectfully, with a vendor for dried apricots.

"Lamb, squash & apricot tagine," Phil decides. "There's lamb in the freezer, so that, a chopped cucumber and tomato salad with khboz and you can bake a Meskouta for dessert. Not a great deal of cooking, but mainly baking. Let's play to your strengths, Agent."

"Any chance to set anything ablaze?" she murmurs with a twisted grin.

For a moment, it's like the old Melinda May is there, standing next to him, and he vows, **_vows_** to himself, that he won't give up, that she's still there.

"We're down a fire extinguisher, so no," is his lightning retort.

"Pity, as the look on your face when she whipped out the torch," she murmurs. Then in a brighter tone, "I never realize you were such a chef."

Coulson is in a strangely pensive mood; the near loss of the irreplaceable, irrepressible Simmons; that brief glimpse of the old Melinda May. Plus there's an old wound, that hasn't even begun to heal. He has to swallow, once, twice before he can speak.

He had met her right after Bahrain, when he had been defeated in body and soul. He had stumbled across an advertisement for a free entrance to an orchestra practice. Since Phil had nothing better to do, except spent time with his demons, he had gone. She had played_ J.S. Bach's Suite for Solo Cello no. 1_, Kodaly, more classics by the masters and then… she had thrown her hair back and rocked "Unforgiven" by Metallica.

The very incongruity of it all, a petite woman rocking Metallica on the cello had made him smile for the first time in days. He had waited outside the stage door just to thank her and fortunately, she hadn't called security on him. Couldn't have blamed Audrey, as he had been wearing a high and tight due his still fresh injuries from Bahrain and he hadn't slept more than catnaps for days.

She had taken pity on him, thought he was a returnee from the Sandbox who was having problems adjusting back to the real world. Her dad had been career military, so, feeling compassion for him, Audrey had invited him to coffee. Hadn't run scared when he had fumbled and stumbled over how much her music had meant to him at the difficult time in his life.

Aud had laughed at his jokes. Nobody ever laughed at his jokes because he wasn't funny. God knows he tried; but he lacks the knack. But she had laughed at his jokes.

"When I was in town for more than a few days, I'd cook for her. Usually, I'd pick something from whatever I had been. She… really… enjoyed Moroccan food."

The magic of food shopping in an exotic marketplace is shattered, so they complete their mission with a minimum of words.

They return back to the Bus and the team greets them. "Cooking with Coulson" has become a team tradition, already, surprisingly quickly, and everyone is interested in what is being brought into the kitchen.

Simmons makes an off handed comment to Coulson about the Ras el hanout, a Moroccan spice, and he's pithy, almost curt with her. Her smile fades and she nervously looks at the rest of the team who could help but notice their tense interaction. Coulson puts his packages down and leaves for his office.

"Wow," Skye says. "Was that really Coulson?"

The bio chemist hunches her shoulders and leaves the area.

"What just happened here?" a perplexed Ward asks.

"Coulson's bealing about her leaping out of the Bus," Fitz explained.

"Bealing?" Ward asks, as while he's fluent in six languages, he doesn't even have a passing familiarity with Scot English.

"He's furious," Skye inserts. She and Fitz then follow Simmons leaving Ward with a Melinda May who doesn't offer her opinions.

It's not the reason. Phil Coulson is just… tired and haunted by his ghosts. He skips dinner and stays in his office where he listens to music… cello music… until he falls asleep. For once, he doesn't dream of Loki and Tahiti, he dreams of a coffee shop and a woman with warm, understanding eyes.

"Since I died, Audrey, since I lost you, I've changed," he confides. "Simmons…. I don't know if I could have survived losing her. She's just so young, Aud. If she had died, I'd never be able to forgive myself."

She smiles and shakes her head. "You haven't changed, Phil. Recent events have just reminded you of the real Phil Coulson."

MISSION

Phil reports to the kitchen in the late morning and May hands him his coffee.

"Didn't join the team for dinner or breakfast," is her greeting. "I've decided to add a few things to the menu. Fortunately, they just need to be baked."

He doesn't say anything, instead he drinks his coffee even while he begins pulling out the various implementations of cooking torture. The Stark pad is placed just so and Phil begins to review the recipe.

"Yesterday, Simmons?" she prompts. "Little curt, weren't you?"

"Tagine, kettle, black?" is his retort even as he chops the lamb into neat cubes.

He ignores her eye roll because sometimes it's just the best way to handle it.

"I heard what you said… to the firefighter," she begins. "About not being afraid."

His only response is to continue cubing the lamb. With perhaps too much enthusiasm as May shakes her head.

"He needed to hear that, so he wouldn't be afraid. Somehow I don't believe that pithy platitude would have worked with Mr. Simmons. She's twenty six years old, and she lacks field experience. We still had time, she made the unilateral decision to jump. She… made the decision that I should have made," he stops because he can't continue, not even to May.

_I would have made the decision. I would have looked her in the eyes and apologized for what I had to do before I performed a mercy killing. I'd wear the guilt of killing an innocent like a shroud as it was my decision. Even if Simmons had… died… I wouldn't have told her parents that she had made the decision. It would be easier for them to hate me for eternally than even for a sheer brief moment to hate their daughter for making such a brave decision. _

"Would you have told her not to be afraid?" May asks. There is no criticism in her tone.

"She's British. I would have quoted Harry Potter at her. 'After all, to the well-organized mind, _death_ is but the_next great adventure'," he says. _

"Coulson," May protests. "Simmons decided to make the decision so you wouldn't feel guilty."

The lamb is brutally vivisected and he puts the knife down. "She doesn't know me at all if she actually thought that would make it one bit easier for me. I thought of the four of them, she was the only one I could trust to behave. After all, she has all gold stars on the Chore Chart."

May shakes her head. "You better be joking about having a Chore Chart in your office."

He feels a little better, the best he's been since the first floating body appeared. "I don't joke. It's well documented that Phil Coulson has no sense of humor."

"That's the God's honest truth," she quips.

"However, lamb's done," he states, as he slides it into the tagine. "Did you cut up the squash?"

"I did," inserts Jemma Simmons who nervously displays her perfectly cubed butternut squash. Her shoulders are still tense and she looks up at Phil as though she wants his approval.

**KIDS!**

"Always take on the hard job, don't you?" Phil asks.

"Want my gold stars spree to continue," she admits.

He softly laughs and shakes his head.

"Since this is Moroccan, we're serve it Moroccan style. Since May has everything under control in the kitchen, you and I can set up the dining area. We need to get cushions as we're sitting on the floor."

Simmons looks at him and smirks so Coulson sighs, "What?"

"You're not planning on wearing a suit and tie tonight, are you?" She asks. "Perhaps something informal might be nice. Do you have anything that's not a dress shirt?"

Phil tried not to be offended when May nodded her head in agreement with Simmons. What was the problem with his clothes? He could do anything in them, storm a beach in Malta, change a tire, and he could certainly sit on the floor.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

The meal is a success, but Phil still isn't sure why the fact he isn't wearing a suit and tie is such a big deal.

However, he's already cleared his schedule to food shop with Fitz, just in case the Scot asks. He's actually looking forward to it, and he's not sure if that's the old or new Coulson talking.


End file.
